Subwoofer Lullaby
by xXSpiritKeeperXx
Summary: A mother lays her child to sleep, but he asks about Steve, about his father. But she can't tell him. Not now. Found this tune, got a shipload of feels, needed to fic. Oneshot, realism.


The small cottage stood a stone throw's distance from the forest, with its straight oak and birch trees rustling their leaves and creaking in the vivid pink sunset. There was a small homely farm, a tiny paddock with a sheep, two pigs, seven chickens and a cow. A wheat crop stood proud and golden. Smoke wafted lazily from a brick chimney, given off by the fire below. The fire ate at the reddish, earthy stone scattered on the floor, smelling half of brimstone but at such a lesser degree than what it once was.

In a room near the back of the torch-lit house, pieces of yellow crystal laced with reddish dust embedded in the ceiling gave light to a mother and young boy, no more than five, in a double woollen bed with vivid red chicken-feather quilts, his eyes wide with childish innocence and peacefulness like no other. His auburn-haired mother sat beside him.

"Mum," he whispered, as she tucked him under the covers, "where's dad?"

A tiny crease appeared between the mother's tired green eyes and she sighed slowly. The question was bound to come eventually. "He's... He's just mining in the caves, dear," she said softly.

"But daddy's been gone for three nights," he mumbled, eyes huge and worrying.

The mother's voice caught in her throat. She knew the truth. She couldn't tell him. "Stevie, darling..." her breath hitched and she took a deep breath. "Daddy will be back soon." Her mind flashed back to... no. She stroked her son's hair, his eyes as deep brown as his father's, his hair as light as hers. His namesake, their 'little Steven'. "He'll be back soon," she whispered.

Stevie's eyes turned sad and frightened. "He didn't find any emdermen?" He mumbled.

The memory hit her with full force. She remembered when she went down to the mine. Stevie was tucked away in a midday nap, and she had gone down in the express minecart, into the parts she knew he deemed safe for her, just to check.

Then she saw the block of dirt with a torch next to it, tiny footsteps edged in black, the torch misplaced as the block was picked up; her heart skipped beats. Then further in...

A glittering pale blue pick and helmet, and a finely made chainmail chestpiece. Ores and stone bits scattered to all corners of the cave... and a huge cavern, blown out of the dirt vein and the surrounding stone by an ever-scowling creeper.

She could only grab the helmet and run as a lengthy, undead moan came from deeper in the darkness. The pick and chainmail were already disintegrating into nothingness.

She hid the helmet, and the truth.

She was pulled back into the present by little Stevie's tugging on her arm. "Mummy?" he whispered.

Liquid welled up in her eyes. Stevie gave a soft gasp, and began to cry.

"N-no, Stevie... Steve," she told him, stroking his soft hair. "It was... it was..." She had to. She had to tell him. "A creeper." She whispered.

Stevie's tears spilled over. "Daddy's...?" his breath hitched.

The mother pulled him up into a tender, strong and all-encompassing hug, soft shushing noises whispered into the child's hair as he began to cry freely.

The mother began doing something she hadn't in a long time. Soft, low notes murmured in her throat, rising up and out to weave slow, melancholy patterns in the air. They spoke of comfort and times to come, but as a single prolonged note changed into a slower melody, they spoke of times lost, of things that could never come back, of things that were once but were not any more. They mourned for Steve, the strong man who knew the ways of the world and could understand the trees and the wolves. Slowly little Steve's sobbing began to fade as fatigue won over, his breathing, slowly, growing more even and relaxed. His hands loosened their grip on his mother's shirt.

The mother kept stroking her child's hair long after his breathing had slowed and he had fallen into the gently reaching clutches of sleep. The lullaby held her thoughts on her lover's face, his strong arms, lifting her into the air and then bringing her down so they could fall into a pile of pine needles or cold river water together. The first time they tried to eat squid and failed because of its flesh disintegrating to leave only the ink sac, the time they finished the cottage roof, the time they sat for a whole day, watching the sun rise and the day progress and the evening set, the innumerable times he tucked a loose strand of hair out of her face, his eyes and smile telling her more than words ever could.

But he was gone, like so much torch smoke.

The sun finally dipped below the horizon, and the moonlight changed the night outside into a ghostly silver landscape.

The mother eventually lay the child down and climbed into the double bed with him, her thoughts dark, melancholy and deeply sorrowful.


End file.
